


Idiots In...

by nyctanthes



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Also in lust, F/M, Idiots in Love, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Word Count: 3500, post-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyctanthes/pseuds/nyctanthes
Summary: Once again they save Hawkins. A win that feels an awful lot like snatching victory from the petulant, tantruming tentacles of defeat. Once again they recover from barely averted disaster. A disaster that in theory should remove all barriers between her and Jonathan.It has, in fact, the opposite effect.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Idiots In...

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure, melted Velveeta with a couple of chopped jalapeños mixed in.

Once again they save Hawkins. A win that feels an awful lot like snatching victory from the petulant, tantruming tentacles of defeat. Once again they recover from barely averted disaster. A disaster that in theory should remove all barriers between her and Jonathan. 

It has, in fact, the opposite effect.

The current state of their relationship is…undecided. It's a vague word, relationship. It's also the most accurate and appropriate word she has to define it.

_Oh hey,_ _what happens now the apocalypse is over, we’re both single and everyone thinks we skipped town to fuck?_

Neither of them has gotten around to asking the other this particular question. Jonathan has been focused on helping his family heal. She has been overwhelmed with…waiting for Jonathan to be less focused.

They circle each other circumspectly, gentlemanly. With excruciating politeness. By their lockers they exchange soft kisses, only a hint of tongue. Before school, by his car, he envelopes her in softer hugs. After school, if he doesn't have to go to work, she perches on a stool in the darkroom and watches him develop film.

Watching him gives her time to think. She wouldn’t mind being

_She’d rather like to be_

the subject of sexy pictures taken by him.

_The key word being subject. As opposed to object._

If in the process she has to shed her sweater, or her pants, and one thing leads to another, that would be 

_ Absolutely one hundred percent no doubt about _ it

acceptable.

Unfortunately, he never gets around to suggesting the past is the past. Doesn't ask if she’d like him to use his new (ish) camera

_ Which is kind of, sort of also hers. She is a terrible person for thinking this.  _

to photograph her. Even when she hints that shedoesn'thave good, recent pictures of herself. It sure would be nice to have some.

They engage in a great deal of snuggling. At the Byers. On the couch. In front of the television. Will sits very straight, face squeezed tight, like he's holding in a fart. Mrs. Byers curls into herself and smiles sadly into the middle distance. She quashes her satisfaction that everything has turned out well - for her, if no one else - and fights the urge to burrow her hands under Jonathan’s shirt.

_Scrape strawberry licorice twists from his collarbone to his belly button. Suck bruised plums into the skin between his ribs. String chile peppers up and down his spine._

It is true that the current state of their relationship is a little staid, a little middle school. When she thinks about it, though, thinks about it coolly and rationally, with her head not her…it makes sense. She and Steve were together they were steady, before they had sex. Other people knew they were together. Before they had sex they talked about high school appropriate topics. Finals (history and baseball, both amateur and professional). Movies and TV. Annoying siblings, clueless parents, prom and keggers. She had time to shed some of her preconceived notions about him. (The hair started as a joke, after he lost a bet to Tommy, but with the positive reaction he took it increasingly seriously, until he isn't sure who he’d be without it. He rather hates himself for thinking this way.) To learn some of the finer details: Steve’s eternal debate between Papa John’s and Pizza Hut. His worry that he's been counting on basketball to get him into college, but quite possibly peaked sophomore year. His deep, abiding love for Trading Places, Supertramp and the color blue. 

She knows Jonathan is a good wingman. That  he is much kinder when talking about her parents and her siblings than she is.

She knows how he makes her feel. She wants to ride him, slow and then slower, until he is forced to use words. He should bend her over his desk, one hand between her legs, the other on her back. Hold her in place and say her name.

But what else does she know about him? His favorite meal, his favorite movie. What are they? His favorite color. Is it black, or is she making a lazy assumption? His life after Hawkins High. Is his plan to move to Oregon and become an eco-terrorist? 

_Not an eco-terrorist, an environmental warrior for justice. Like the guy who wrote that book, Abbey whatshisface. But with better hygiene and less facial hair. _

Or is that a ridiculous school rumor she's imbibed as fact?

Has she really put someone’s dick in her mouth, and swallowed, when she doesn't know if he has a middle name. Does she really want to do it again, without needing to know anything further about him?

_Who is she?_

When she thinks about it like this,

_Frankly._

taking it slow, taking the time to learn about the other - what makes them tick, what they have in common, how they fit together outside of monster hunting - makes perfect sense. Sleeping together, staying together because of initial chemistry, shared trauma can only take you so far. She and Steve are proof of that.

During their Thursday drive from her house to school, she proposes they spend the next night together. Outside the Byers house.

“At the shooting range?” Jonathan gives her a smile-that-is-not-a-smile, she's learning to interpret them. “You want to patrol the woods? Teach me much needed self-defense moves? Find some killer rabbits and take them down?”

“No monsters. No talk about monsters. No talk about the government, newspapers or wacky journalists slash private investigators - their poor taste in bathrobes, terrible table manners and refusal to mind their own business.” She looks at him out the side of her eye, tilts her head a couple of degrees and fakes nonchalance. “We should have dinner, somewhere other people are. People who aren’t related to us.”

He pulls into his spot in the parking lot. They approach school as slowly as possible, hips and shoulders brushing. Their knees bump against each other. Once, they held hands. Not today, though. 

“Are you asking me out?” Jonathan looks pleased. Also skeptical. “On a Friday night date date? Where we might run into someone from school?”

“No need to sound surprised. You think I’m ashamed of you?”

“Of course not. Anyone would be lucky to go out with me. No one knows how to have a good time like I do.”

They’re at her locker. There are no more stares or comments. She braced herself, but there was never any locker graffiti. Not like last year.

“Because they’re worried we’ll beat the shit out of them,” Jonathan says, when she notes its absence. “There’s a rumor going around that we tag-teamed Steve, after he dared to ask us what was going on. I think he prefers it to the truth about Billy. He hasn’t corrected anyone.” 

What there is: more than polite distance between them and everyone else. Out of fear, she supposes, they might catch what the two of them have.

It's interesting, to realize she doesn't care. 

_Mostly doesn’t care. Some days are easier than others. She isn’t used to being ignored for the wrong reasons._

“So you’re scared,” she teases.

“A little.”

“I’ll keep you safe.”

Jonathan steps closer, until she can feel the warmth emanating from his skin. He brushes his thumb across her lips. She parts them, but it's already gone.

“I’m counting on it.”

*

They drive to Hardee's and order sandwiches and milkshakes  from the drive-through. For her, chocolate. For him, vanilla. She watches him slip the straw between his lips and suck on it, hard. He licks his lips and silently contemplates its flavor profile.

“It’s hard to get a good vanilla,” he solemnly decrees. She can't tell whether he is serious or making fun of someone.

_Himself?_

With his shake he asks for a cheeseburger and french fries. With her shake she asks for a spicy chicken sandwich and onion rings. She opens the bag and catches a whiff. Remembers that onions, along with cheese, garlic and fish, are one of the food groups you absolutely never never never eat when you’re with someone whose mouth you wish to plunder

_Ravish Invade Storm Besiege_

with your tongue.

But he's put _his_ tongue on her clit - tentative to start, increasingly enthusiastic until she finally had to pull him up and deliver the bad news.

_When you’re a girl, it doesn't always happen._

_(She'd rather not start things between them by faking it.)_

Maybe one or two onion rings are acceptable? She always carries, and today is no exception, cinnamon Tic-Tacs in her purse. For emergencies.

And this night, she reminds herself, is not about sex. It's about getting to know each other better. If Jonathan can restrain himself, she can too.

_Anything you can do…_

She eats the whole box.

They cruise a rectangle. Up Broadway, left on Elm, left and down the length of Main, left on Oak and it's back to Broadway. They repeatedly circle the parking lot shared by the IGA, the drive in liquor store, the gyro place and Reed’s Drugstore. Back on Main Street they pass the courthouse, the funeral home, the Hawkins Post and The Hawk. A slow roll over the railroad tracks takes them past the starter condominium complex and a half empty office park. Jonathan switches it up by taking a left on Maple and a left on First. It's back to the beginning.

It's cold outside. This morning she looked for her mittens, was sad when she only found one of them. In her visor mirror she inspects her hair, her face. Cranks up the heater and rolls down her window.

“There’s a blanket in the backseat.”

“I’m fine. Kind of hot. You should roll down your window too.”

_Everyone take a good look._

*

During their drive she learns many things about Jonathan, including the following:

_Favorite food_

“Isn’t everyone’s favorite food pizza? Besides that? Stir fry. Easy to make, delicious with hot sauce, and the vegetables let me stretch the meat. The rice is tricky. It came out different every time until I switched to Uncle Ben’s. A splurge, but worth it. Also, chicken soup. If you can get it right, it makes everything better. And it’s the one thing my mom cooks really well.”

_Middle name_

“You’re going to laugh.”

“I promise I will not laugh.”

“You will, but that’s ok. Jedediah Jesse. I see you smiling.”

“But I’m not laughing.”

“Mom and Dad couldn’t agree, so they gave me two. They sobered up before they had Will. He has none.”

“I can’t laugh. Mine is Sylvia.” He quirks an eyebrow of please no. “Oh yes. My mom used to read a lot of her poetry. It ‘spoke to her.’”

“Wasn’t her husband’s name Ted?”

“It was, and there’s absolutely no need to remind me. It’s totally fucking creepy.”

“Middle names should be abolished.”

“Or we should get to pick them ourselves.”

“What would yours be?”

“I don’t know. Probably something I’d regret when I was older, like Dorian or Fallon.” He looks blank. “From…forget about it.”

_Some things about her should forever remain a mystery._

_Favorite color_

“No one has a favorite color after the age of five. What’s the point? So I can use it as a _template_ to decorate my room, pick out my t-shirts and select my school supplies?”

“My favorite color is purple. I have lilac, lavender and violet sweaters. Yes, they are absolutely different colors. I take notes with magenta pens. I recently bought plum colored sheets. Maybe, one day, you’ll get to see them.”

“I’m sorry?”

_Favorite movie_

“I know we promised not to talk about monsters, but…horror movies. Not only the straight up slashers, but the ones with a sense of humor. The psychological ones too. Don’t ask me to pick one. It’s too hard.”

“Of course not.”

“Did you know Psycho is actually pretty fucking scary?”

“I’m going with Carrie. Carrie is the scariest. Blood, religious fanaticism, terrible parents and high school."

"But also pretty satisfying, no? Who hasn't at some point in their life wanted to go out in a literal blaze of glory, knowing all the assholes are getting what's coming to them."

"Um...me?"

_Maybe there's some truth to that rumor?_

His mouth remains a straight line, but his eyes narrow at the corners, they spark and ah...she'll have to let him have that one.

“I know you said we’re not supposed to talk about the government, but conspiracy movies are also great. Especially the ones with Gene Hackman.”

“I know _I_ swore not to talk about the government but…Terminator. The concept _should_ be mind-blowing, but it’s not. It makes perfect sense. Considering what we’ve seen, of course there will be killer robots from the future. You know that Skynet was created by a Brenner like megalomaniac who thought he could control the beast.”

“It’s a pretty grim view of the future, Nancy. Technology isn’t inevitably going to turn on us. It doesn’t _have_ to be Us vs. The Robots. They could, radical thought here, make the world a better place? Solve problems? Imagine doing surgery with miniature robots. Not having to spread someone's ribcage open and touch their heart.”

“Yes, it will. No, they won't. It absolutely will be war. But not if I have any say in the matter.”

*

As they circle the IGA parking lot for the fourth time, only a smattering of other cars around - moving or still - she racks her brain for a tactful way to ask Jonathan how his financial situation is influencing his college plans.

_I could begin by talking about me, pause. Send him a discreet, inquiring look. If he wants to, he can pretend he didn’t see it._

Before she can proceed, Jonathan abruptly turns the wheel and pulls the wrong way across three empty spots. He puts the car in park and rolls up his window. Takes a deep breath and releases it. Nods to himself, mutters indecipherable words to himself. Nods again. Mutters again.

_Is he giving himself a pep talk?_

He turns to face her and reaches for her hand. Turns it palm up and traces her scar softly, so that it tickles.

_Don’t laugh don’t squirm. Don’t squirm don’t laugh._

He stares into her eyes. One of those soulful, searching looks they've been exchanging for months. Like if he does it hard enough he can pick the lock to the cupboard where she stores all her secrets.

“I’m going to ask you a question. If I’m mistaken. If I’ve misinterpreted or don’t say it exactly right, you have to promise not to get mad at me. Just tell me I’m wrong. We can pretend I never said it. Because we’re friends now, right? No matter what?”

“Of course we are…” He is still looking at her with those extremely intent, extremely intense eyes. Jiggling his leg, rubbing her palm more firmly now, the pressure no longer too soft. 

_Ouch._

Not saying a word.  


_Is he breaking up with her? When they haven't started going out? Did she lean into the anti-robot screed too hard and freak him out? Nancy the Vigilante…black motorcycle leathers and red bandanna, a little pinch between her cheek and gum. Pistols at the ready._

_"_ Nancy..."

“Oh my god, Jonathan, spit it out. You’re scaring me.” Despite her best effort to come across as, at most, mildly curious, she says it with more than a tinge of hysteria.

“Can we go to the quarry or the cemetery or that field near my house and make out? Just a little? Shit, practically no one’s here. We don’t have to drive anywhere. We could mess around right here.”

“What?”

It comes out in an unpunctuated rush. “It’s just that you look so fucking good, with the sweater and the lipstick and the hair - the cold’s made your cheeks flushed and I really, really want to kiss you, really kiss you and to be honest I’ve been wondering all night what kind of bra you’re wearing and how hard it’ll be for me to take off because let’s face it I haven’t had a lot of practice and we’ve been talking so much, no one’s ever asked me to talk about myself as much as you have I had no idea I'm so fascinating and we’ve spent weeks at my house hanging out, did you know all my shirts smell like your shampoo and I’ve been sleeping with a frilly sweatery thing you left at the house…”

He wrings her hand like a washcloth, but she's too mesmerized by the sheer number of words spilling from his mouth to extricate it. “…and we’re so comfortable with each other, you feel that too I can’t be making that up and I don’t think you’re still feeling guilty about us being together and the way you dumped…the way you and Steve ended things and I thought that maybe we could go on a trip out of town and spend the night somewhere because I can’t stop thinking about what happened at...or maybe I’ve gotten it wrong and we’re not together like that and it was just a one time thing - well a four or five times thing - which is totally completely okay I am happy to be friends who snuggle a lot at my house but not your house if that’s what you’ve decided you want.”

Panting like he’s run a fifty yard dash with a thirty pound backpack strapped to his shoulders, he 

_Finally_

drops her hand and cracks his knuckles. Looks studiously at the steering wheel, giving her time and space to process.  


“What?” she says again. This time with a yelp of indignation, too outraged to check her hand for bruises. 

“ _I_ feel guilty? _I_ want to be snuggle friends? At _your_ house? _You’re_ the one who’s gotten caught between first and second base! Thinking if you just stand there the short-stop’s not gonna get you!”

Why, oh why did she indulge in such a terrible, inappropriate and flat-out _incorrect_ Steve Harrington baseball metaphor? Jonathan looks at her, simultaneously hurt and incredulous. He knows where she got it from. 

_Nowhere to go but forward._

_“You’re_ the one who won’t leave his house because he’s too worried about leaving his mom and his brother alone - which is perfectly correct and sensible,” she adds hastily, anticipating the thunderous look that will cross his face and wanting to cut it off at the pass. “You are a great, a _fantastic_ son and brother, a million times better than I am. Even though I’m a girl and currently and technically not anyone’s son. Or brother. Anyway, it’s clear that because of your…you know…dad and how that made you scared, I mean suspicious of gir….peop…what Murray said, that you want to get to know me better before we get too physical. Again. I want to respect that.”

“Know you better? I’ve known you since we were in elementary school! What the hell else is there to learn?” he grumbles.

She also grumbles, louder.

“I mean, there’s lots more to learn, you’re deep, super deep, you’re an ocean, but that takes time, to plumb those depths…fuck! I didn’t mean it to sound like that. No. _You’re_ the one who obviously wanted to take it slow. Because you were coming out of…and because things happened kind of fast at…and people at school were saying…”

She focuses on the essentials, tries her best to ignore the torrent of backpedaling, ass covering, liquid _bullshit_ that apparently will never end unless she takes control of the conversation.

“Did I mention that any of that was an issue for me?”

“No. Not with words. But I could tell…Ok, perhaps I made a _slight_ assumption. It seemed like the right thing to do. What _you_ wanted _me_ to do. When I thought about it, it made sense. That what you were telling me with your actions if not with actual words made sense. You know I’m crazy about you, and I thought you deserved to be…courted.”

_He said he’s crazy about me._

“Courted?” She can’t help it, she laughs. “You’ve been watching too much Little House on the Prairie, Jonathan. I want to have sex. With you.” 

She puts a hand high up his leg, so he cannot possibly misinterpret her intention. “Right this very second. I’ve been waiting weeks to have sex with you again. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” 

He blushes. He groans and bangs his head against the steering wheel, a little harder than necessary. “I am such an idiot.”

“Yes, you are.” 

He tries not to. He pouts.

_So sensitive._

_(He said he’s crazy about me.)_

"But I am an idiot, too.” She moves her hand higher, cups it over the crotch of his jeans and feels him swell under its pressure. Decide he isn’t especially offended.

“What matters is you can make it up to me. And I can make it up to you.” 

The first time she and Jonathan have sex after the first first times, she doesn't get him to talk, not a single word. But she does. She won't stop, can't shut up. It makes him smile an actual smile - wide and delighted.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd have reason to use the Idiots In Love tag. Thanks to Jancy Week 2019 on Tumblr for providing space to be inspired.


End file.
